


The Trial of the Flowers

by TrashyTime



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fisting, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cock Slut, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gangbang, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is a Mess, Humiliation, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Leshen - Freeform, M/M, Not Beta Read, Object Insertion, Older Man/Younger Man, Other, Oviposition, Self-Doubt, Self-Hatred, monster fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:33:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28033206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrashyTime/pseuds/TrashyTime
Summary: Geralt and Eskel are about to undergo their very last trial before they get to go out into the world as fully fledged Witchers. They both argue about what it could be. Eskel thinks it's a big gangbang. Geralt thinks it must have something to do with monsters.They're both right.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 18
Kudos: 74
Collections: Consent Issues Exchange 2020





	1. Geralt is a hungry boy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hobbitdragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitdragon/gifts), [BrighteyedJill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/gifts).



> In chapter 1 there is so much happy slut Geralt getting all the dick. Monster dick, Eskel dick, older witchers dick. Geralt is fairly shameless and he enjoys being a big ole slut for Eskel. It's good and feels good. 
> 
> He is heavily drugged and pretty out of it by the time the gangbang begins, and he barely even processes it is a thing. 
> 
> Chapter 2, however, is much darker. It has Vesemir trying to help Geralt, and Geralt trying to make everything his fault and awful. All the negative emotions you might expect from, yanno being thrown into a pit to be forced to fuck a monster, or being passed around like a party favor, show up with some new friends. It also has a wiggly live birth of a Leshen seedling. 
> 
> You're welcome to skip the 2nd chapter if that sounds like it may trip the second hand embarassment or squick lines for you.

Geralt and Eskel had heard that the last trial they were facing was some big coming of age thing. Eskel, while slipping his fingers behind Geralt’s balls, had whispered that he thinks it might be sex. A really big gang bang. Geralt was too busy gasping from how devilishly crooked finger caressed over his favorite bundle of happy nerves inside to really give that the derision it deserves. 

Why would so many of the older witchers need to go on a big trip before this specific trial every few years. It didn’t make sense if they were just going to fuck them. But that wasn’t half as important as getting Eskel to fuck him at the moment, so he grabbed the smaller boy and kissed him hard while thrusting his hips back onto the oil slick fingers spearing into him. 

They lost time, and in the morning, they discovered they may have actually overdone it. When they woke, the room reeked of sex and Vessemir was standing in the doorway with his arms crossed. “Get dressed. Don’t bother with cleaning, you slept through breakfast, and you would do well to remember it was your actions that made you start this trial on an empty stomach. We are awaiting you in the west dungeons.” He gave them one more stern look as he closed the door. 

The second it was closed Eskel burst out laughing, then began apologizing. “Oh, I, sorry, I’ve got some axe jerky in my bag, come on, let’s get dressed.” 

Geralt huffed and got up, snagging his own leggings with a face at the laughter from Eskel. His stomach growled as movement reminded it that he had last eaten many hours of vigorous exercise ago. Also that he had more than a little semen slicking him up. 

Eskel thumped his shoulder with a grin that couldn’t be repressed, “Hey, if I am right and it’s sex, you’re already all slicked up and ready to excel!” 

Geralt swiped for Eskel, getting a hand full of axe jerky to chew on instead of a bunch of shirt to drag Eskel back. The trials had given Geralt a ridiculous amount of height, switching him from the smallest of his year to one of the largest in 3 years, but Eskel had the sort of gawky proportions that said with time he may manage to surpass Geralt again soon. 

But one thing that had remained the same, was how Geralt was never, and likely would never become a morning person. He chewed his jerky as Eskel bounced on his feet, easier for the boy that had done all the fucking than the one fucked. Geralt flushed, knowing the trainers would all be able to smell the spend gooing his pants. 

He was still blushing at the thought of that as they finally made it to the barred entrance to the western dungeons. Except unlike the usual closed doors, there was a bored looking old witcher, not one of their usual trainers, leaning against the door. He eyed the boys and then sniffed before chuckling. His pendant had a cat on it, and Geralt’s eyes flew to Eskel’s both their eyes wide as they shared quick glances and aborted signs of surprise and shock. 

“Yeah, Cat. It’s too damned hard to run this trial for just one or two kittens. And your school has the best tool for it, all ready to go. You pups are going to get to be the first to demonstrate- without the lecture before hand. Teach you both to exhaust yourselves.” There was more sinister chuckling as the Cat led them in. The massive room they were led to was filled with Witchers. Some familiar, some different. Some had armor completely alien. And all the gawky boys, the others going through the trial, were easy to spot. They all were naked. 

Eskel and Geralt both took a deep breath, sniffing deep, the scent of lust and fear, of discomfort and what could only be the musk of something inhuman, filled the air, flowering and bright. Both wolves, the only two wolf trainees in the bunch of seven trainees, shared another wide eyed look before a huge man with a manticore pendant grabbed them both by the scruff and picked them up bodily. 

“As the last, and the ones making the wolves look bad- let’s see how these pups fair without the training you all just had!” His voice is as massive as his body, easily over seven feet tall with arms wider than their torsos, as he dangles them off the ground. Vessemir is glaring at them, and Geralt shrinks under the look. 

Nikkan, the absolute sadist he is, sneers, “Toss them in without any of the tools we gave the others, they wanted to be a disgrace, let them learn better, if they survive.” No young wolf likes Nikkan. Even Vessemir doesn’t like the sadistic taskmaster and trainer, having made that constipated face as he tended them and their then living yearmates after one particularly bad training session. But no one can say that young wolves don’t know how to survive ambushes and other horrible realities of the road as a result of Nikkan’s teachings. 

Eskel and Geralt share looks, sniffing and looking around to try to get as many details as they can. It is plain to see that their fate was decided before they arrived. A lesson to the other trainees. That means they have to try to gather what they can before the trial itself. It’s obviously a sex thing. There are almost 40 witchers here. At least 3, maybe 4 schools. Whatever they are facing- “We were both right.” Geralt says grimly, while Eskel starts shucking off his leggings instead of fighting the hold of the big witcher dangling them. Geralt snorts and does the same, both of them trying to prepare as much as they can and wiggling around to try seeing what is in the massively long, and incredibly deep pit ringed by seasoned witchers at the top. 

When the boys are tossed, both of them are without their leggings and Eskel rolls easily. Geralt thunks down a little harder, more bouncing than rolling, his arm shoulder and knee aching, to the derisive snorts from above. Eskel is quick to help him to his feet, and they are looking around. 

There is a massive shape, shards of demitrium line the sides of the walls, and a few sections have scorch marks. There are signs of igni and other things- as well as the old musty smell of sex, pain… and old death. The floral rich scent that seems to coat it is not able to erase whatever it is they must face. 

Eskel moves closer to Geralt while Geralt removes his shirt. He is taller than Eskel, and heals much faster. It makes sense for him to be first. “Use some of the slick from me- the others seemed to have slick on their thighs.” Eskel nodded and moved to slip his fingers between Geralt’s globes, the danger and the adrenaline of uncertainty would make this all incredibly hot if they were not also at risk of one or both of them dying. Geralt tries to focus on the task at hand, not the way those fingers slip into him, curling and making him feel so good.

Some monsters have corrosive blood. Some that work as drugs, mind control, a whole slew of things. Both boys wait, expecting to be rushed by whatever monster is being kept here. Instead, there is only the sound of slithering, and that deep musky floral scent. 

While there is bright light above, down in the pit there is no light. Without Cat potions, Eskel is blind and Geralt can barely make out the hint of movement along the deepest shadows. The floor is flat at the end they were tossed but the angle down is steep enough that if they miss their footing they will tumble down without any way to stop themselves. Eskel calls up to the watchers, “This is shit, if this were a contract we’d at least have whatever stories we could gather from the local humans and signs we could study! At least give us that much!” 

There is a snort and one of the witchers calls down, “young boys and girls keep going missing in a section of forest, a few older women too. The local flora is blooming wildly out of season and all the fruit has more seeds than meat. Wheat is so heavy at top it buries itself into the ground too fast to harvest, and the town alderman swears in it’s 30 years of existing at the edge of this old wood, the town has never seen anything like this.” 

There is some snickering and all the faces up above are grinning or smirking. Geralt looks at Eskel, who looks back with an equally confused look. 

“Can’t be a Leshen.” Geralt starts, and Eskel tilts his hand in a maybe yes maybe no way, while Geralt quickly runs through a dozen other monsters. Geralt grumbles and scowls. “It wants to breed. It’s something based on fertility. Women and children going missing could be food, but it also could be trying to mate with them and they’re unprepared.”

Eskel makes a humming sound, low in his throat, thinking as the two peer into the darkness, up above there is a bit of sound, the two witchers closest to them scuffling a little, almost like two bastion boys that have a pet squirrel that just did something entertaining but they’re trying to shush each other. 

Geralt’s eyes narrow, but Eskel is deep in thought, obviously flipping through all the books he’s read. There is more noise in the darkness, slithering and crunching, something earthy and peaty, with the decaying floral sweet scent. Something musky and- Geralt swears, breathing through his nose deeply and trying to see if it is doing what he thinks it is. “Eskel? Use your shirt and mine, tie them over your nose and mouth.” Eskel makes a face, but he trusts Geralt. 

Geralt however, doesn’t say much more, looking back at Eskel. “Stay back, follow a bit behind me. I think, I may have been wrong. Leshen control plants and animals. Rapid growth. Too many seeds. We never read about their mating habits in the books, but we know the older they are the more powers they have. Including making things that alter the minds of beings and animals. And there is a spore or gas in the air. Something- it’s sedative and also an aphrodisiac at the same time.” 

“Geralt, you sure you don’t want me beside you?” Eskel asks, face pulling in that concerned tug, eyebrows knitting above the shirts, in a way that makes Geralt feel like he’s the smaller one. Like he’s the one a foot smaller than the other boy and sure to die in the first trial let alone survive extra ones as he did. It makes his chest clench and his heart skip a beat before it makes him feel reckless. 

“Yeah, we both know I like to ride cock way more than you, and this is going to be so much bigger.” Geralt plays it off, and above them there is laughter, but Geralt thinks he’s got it figured out. He strides forward, confident it will be just a smaller Leshen, maybe some tentacles. 

The beast that looms out of the darkness is, so much bigger than he thinks. He can tell by the massive height difference. They were tossed a good 30 feet down, and the long hall angles so sharply downward he is down another 30 by the time he feels it starting to level out again. There is stones, no packed dirt or things for roots to grow out of. But more than thrice his height, easily 17 or more feet, the glowing blue eyes are bigger than his head. They were not glowing before, he swears. But he can make out that there is a sharper ledge. A deeper cliff and suddenly his certainty that he could take this, could do this is dropping rapidly. He’s had no problems taking Eskel. Or their fingers or that one training mace with it’s rounded nubs that they smuggled down from the less used Bastion field. 

But suddenly he feels very uncertain as to just how smart it was to come striding up so boldly. Is this how he dies? They can’t hope to scrape an ancient Leshen. And he’s right- but, also wrong. There are flowers along it, he can barely see a few of them in the glow of its eyes. Flowers and the smell is so much stronger here. 

“Oh fuck, this is not how I want to die.” Geralt mumbles to himself, gone from confident to wide eyed horror, the arousal that had been blooming as Eskel had fingered and curled up within him to fish oil and spunk from his ass to open himself up was warring with absolute terror. 

Above him there is a rumble, and Geralt swallows then says loudly “Eskel, I take it back, I, you should definitely not come closer.” His voice is quivering and there is fear coating it despite how hard he tries to be brave.

There is another rumble, but the head, those eyes, are bending closer and Geralt is quite frankly too scared to backpedal. The skull before him is massive, with huge cavernous eyes he could literally fit into. He doesn’t even know what species that is. Leshen are something from before the Conjunction of the Spheres. They, like the lizard folk, were among the first creatures of this world. Before humans. Before most of the monsters. Geralt’s heart is pounding and he swears he can feel something trickling along the edges of his hearing. 

Something strange he can’t quite make out, not slithering or rustling or creaking, he gulps the spore thick air and he can feel the way his body is trying to relax even as his nipples and cock throb hard and eager. “Good.” The word is alien, not a voice so much as his mind playing tricks on him. Like wind between branches, whistling and making moans that fool the mind. 

“Loyal. Accepting.” Geralt doesn’t know what to make of the words, but he gives a scream as Eskel places a hand on his shoulder. Geralt whirls, clumsy and ready to shove Eskel to safety but the eyes are close enough, are bent to be right before them. Eskel’s face is lit up, a grim determination, where Geralt goes, Eskel will too. It’s stupid they both will die. This is so stupid, it’s a waste and so fucked up. He doesn’t know how they’re supposed to survive this, he doesn’t understand it. 

But Eskel slides his hand down Geralt’s arm, grabbing his hand to lace their fingers, chin up, the shirts abandoned and his entire body glistening faintly from a sheen of sweat that heralds his own increased desire. “It takes both of us, doesn’t it? To get you off. To, breed or whatever it is we’re here to learn to do.” 

Geralt, hadn’t thought of that. With as massive as the Leshen before him is, he had only had terrifying nightmares of the beastly vine cock that would rip him apart as it tried to slake itself. 

“Wise. Young. Foolish. Brave.” There is that rustling, rumbling sound which all at once, Geralt realizes is laughter. He squawks a little, the sound he makes undignified but he’s suddenly grasping what Eskel caught onto. 

They were going to be helping the Leshen breed- but, the Leshen wasn’t a human. They must breed differently than a human. Have different needs and desires probably. And the trial is something almost all witchers do seem to survive. Far more than most other trials, in fact. No one in their memory has failed this test. 

Which, couldn’t be the case if it was somehow trying to shove a cock bigger than them into their asses or mouths. Not that Geralt’s mind, now that it was off the table, didn’t immediately decide the idea of somehow taking a thigh sized cock was actually really hot after all. 

Geralt shakes himself, squeezing Eskel’s hand. “How do we help?” He asks, and there is more of that rumble, the eyes glowing brighter still as a gargantuan hand slices into the stone before them as easily as if cutting through butter. He shivers as a part of him wonders if he is going to be rubbing on a cock as big as he is while another part of him is nearly screaming at proof of how absolutely outclassed they are if anything goes wrong. He shouldn’t be dripping from the tip of his cock at that conflicting set of inner thoughts, yet his cock is throbbing in time with his pounding heart. If, it’s rubbing it off, maybe, he and Eskel can work together. Get it off together. He bites his lower lip as he thinks about that with pulses of arousal.

Geralt can imagine it. Eskel and he having to grip arms, their entire bodies rubbing up and down along the massive vine covered cock. The way their own cocks and chests would be pressed to either side, the way Eskel would order him not to cum as he would start moaning long before Eskel. He always does when they frot together. He would only be able to hear Eskel, to feel his grip on his hands and forearms as they work to pleasure that massive cock in tandem.

“Climb. Flowers.” The voice above them seems clearer the more they hear it, the haze of lust clearing enough for Geralt to get back to the task at hand. Geralt looks at Eskel, then they both are climbing the offered arm, the dark is still so deep that they can only see thanks to the light of the glowing eyes. Eskel grunts the second time he slips, not able to even see the massive knotted tree trunks and vines that Geralt can with much more than a vague hazed outline in the pitch blackness. 

Geralt stops and asks loudly, “Can we use a spell? To give us light? It won’t be much. Just a shield.” Eskel looks startled, he hadn’t even thought to ask that. Geralt would tease him later, for now Geralt just hoped Eskel could cast a bubble Quen long enough to climb. Geralt was shit at signs, and the best he could do was a much less flashy or useful version along his body. 

Eskel grunts again as there is that chuckling again and then what could only be nodding. There is some fumbling then the orange sparkly glow of Quen bubbles up around Eskel. It flickers a little as he climbs awkwardly. But with the added light, Geralt sees- dozens of flowers over the massive, and apparently sitting, form. They’re gorgeous. Some opening along shoulders, chest, and thicker larger ones draping over the belly, hips, and legs. The one closest to him is open with a huge stamen in the middle. It is gooey and easily as thick as Eskel’s palm along most of the length, a little thicker at the end and bottom, with what looks like honey coating it. Geralt swallows hard and he can’t help but imagine how they’re supposed to help those. 

Geralt tentatively reaches out, fingers gentle as they touch the stamen, his eyes wide. “Oh. Eskel. I, you should find a smaller one. I, are we supposed to rub it or put it inside?” He directs the second part to the huge Leshen above them, and there is more rumbling. It is as if their ignorance is amusing. Refreshing.

“Inside. Breed.” The voice rumbles, so huge, this Leshen must be closer to 25 or even 30 feet fully standing. A monster that surely the world knows about. It’s too big to go unseen, surely. How could it be brought in? Even with 40 witchers. It didn’t make sense. 

But the heady scent was so close. Geralt rubbed his fingers over the sticky slick stamen, bringing his hand up to lick and taste it. He had to know if it was safe for Eskel. He quickly began to flush more, licking his hand and moaning, chasing every drop of the thick gooey substance from his fingers and palm, chasing it like the nectar it is. He is panting as he moves forward to smear his lips along the bulge of the top, licking at it with hunger that makes his stomach groan and grumble. His fingers are stripping up, cupping and gathering the goo to slurp and drink, heedless of everything else. He needs more. It makes him tingle, his cock dripping and heavy, his skin too tight, his mind as drunk as the time before that trial, when they and the Berg and Johan and the other boys not yet dead all slipped off to drink themselves blind, knowing most of them would not survive the next week. 

He needs to coat himself in this, to drink it till he’s full. He is moaning, and he suddenly wants, desperately and urgently, to have the goo inside him in every way possible. 

Eskel is there, behind him, his fingers meeting Geralt’s as he brings the goo to smear on himself, between his cheeks. “Shhh, wolf, you’re whining like you’re in heat.” The tease would be cutting except there is the thick eager sound of lust. Eskel has always loved the way Geralt gets, when he wants more, but can’t quite get enough, fast enough. Too impatient. Too everything. 

Geralt manages words, “Need in me, need it in me, need all this” he strokes the stamen and pushes the goo back with his other hand, meaning both but unable to think of the words to phrase it in the mad rush he feels, “in me.” He pants, his cheek rubbing above the hand that stayed on the flowery shaft, the gooey nectar in his hair, over his neck and temple, coating his lips where he can’t lick it off fast enough. And everywhere it touches tingles. The heady mix of too much and not enough- of aphrodisiac and muscle relaxant, has him feeling like he’s floating as he shoves two slick fingers into himself. 

Eskel is there, naked, his cock hard and rubbing along his cleft as he shushes Geralt. “Shh relax, wolf, gonna open you up. Get your ready to breed our friend here. Well, to be bred by it. Fuck, that thing’s as big as the wooden practice mace, isn’t it. Gonna leave you all gaping. All gooey and ready. Bet we can find you a bigger one, and a bigger one after that.” He is saying those naughty mind blankingly hot things as his fingers shove in beside Geralt’s. 

Geralt whines again, and Eskel barks orders, taking command, taking the lead as he always does in the bed, “Fuck, get these fingers back to work on the shaft before you. Keep bringing back more slick, want to fuck you before you get all sloppy and bred up.” That said, he is thrusting his cock in to replace the fingers, not waiting for more, their skin slippery with sweat and goo where his chest presses to Geralt’s back. 

Geralt can’t think, can’t do anything but moan and obey, bringing goo coated hands back time and again, alternating for Eskel to scrape clean, fingers thrusting in next to his cock, coating his cock before thrusting and working it into Geralt. For his part, Geralt is wailing as he sucks and gulps and licks on the stamen before his lips, wilder and wilder to drink it all down. 

Eskel’s thrusts work him into a frenzy, the tingling growing and blooming into a warmth that has his eyes rolling into his head. In his belly, where he has drunk what must be pints of the goo, he swears he can feel a pulsing sparkling heat. Something nearly alive rolls within his belly, feeling heavier by the thrust. His lashes flutter as he whines again, skin feeling tight, so good, oh so good. He is smearing his face on the thick fleshy tip of the stamen, the words babbling out of him as Eskel grunts and slips above him. 

Geralt swears he can feel Eskel’s nipples over the skin of his back, the goo is smeared over his entire body, no part of him free of it, no part of him not sensitized and wild from it. He cums hard, milking Eskel as his muscles all pull hard, curling him forward, the rumbling above and around them seeming like a sated purr. Above him Eskel makes one, then two more thrusts before with a harsh pant of “Fuck!” Geralt can feel him cumming inside him. 

That shouldn’t be possible. But he’s so sensitized he swears he can feel the gush and splash. It’s enough to leave Geralt’s toes curling, eyelashes gummed and hard to open, panting for enough air in the afterthroes of what has to be the most intense orgasm of his life. 

“Inside.” Rumbles down and around them, an order and request rolled into one, breaking into the afterglow. Geralt flushes, having completely forgot what they are supposed to be doing to finish this trial. He feels a bolt of humiliation at that, and Eskel groans above him. “There’s a cock slut and then there is you, Geralt. Going to have to keep you on task.”

Geralt whines a little, deep in his throat at that. Humiliation burns bright in his cheeks even as the familiar lust that follows it blooms brighter still, deep in his gut. His nipples feel tight, needy, same as his inner muscles clenching and trying to pull at Eskel’s softening cock. When Eskel slips free, the sound, wet and lewd, makes him want to hide the shamed flush to his cheeks. 

Eskel however, laughs, spreading him open to stare at the pretty sight of Geralt’s red rim, as if this was any other night. “Fuck, after I used you so hard last night, you’d think you would have had enough. Just look at you. Gooey and sloppy and so pretty. Puffy and winking at me. Such a pretty slut.” Geralt wants to beg him to stop, wants to beg for him to fuck into him again. Wants Eskel’s fingers to slip into him and curl, make him beg to cum again. 

Instead, Eskel spanks, a lewd and loud clap that jolts Geralt more from the shock of it and the noisy wet splatting meeting of slick skin on slippery skin, “Get up and get over that stigma.” Geralt’s brows furrow and he realizes the stamen and carpel are one and the same in this flower. No extra bits, just one massive combined tool for breeding. Geralt clenches again at that thought. It's going to be breeding him.

It’s slippery and hard to move up above the dauntingly large bulbous end of the flower’s multi purpose middle. He feels slow and lethargic, blinking hard to do in the dim blue light of above, of their Leshen friend. Eskel’s hands slip and grip over his hips, helping press him just so over the big bulbous head. He is right in front of him, holding him, steadying him, and it feels like Eskel is the one that wants this. Wants his pretty slut all bred up. At that thought Geralt can't help another wet and wanton moan. 

Geralt throws his head back, muscles straining as that big, almost fist sized tip pushes at him. It’s so close to the width of that training club. He has to loosen to accept it, just like that weapon turned toy. “Open up, show me what a slut you are for me.” Eskel whispers urgently in his ear, pressed against him. It's so close to what Geralt was just thinking that it feels nearly electric. Geralt has to kiss, to feel grounded as it is pressing into him. It’s gooey and more giving than the harsh wood. But it’s so much. 

Eskel meets his lips, kissing and swallowing Geralt’s cry as finally it pushes inside him. It’s somehow more intense than the mace. It’s, he can’t bring back enough air. All he can do is cling, bruisingly hard to Eskel’s shoulders as he is guided down. He gathers air, only to wail. His feet are pressed to the bulging base of the flower, he can’t remember the name- ovary maybe, all he knows is he can feel something inside it. Something moving under his feet and he is going to go mad, it’s so far inside him, so much farther than Eskel has ever gone. He swears he can feel it at the back of his throat, it’s so deep. He is pressed, heaving for air, trembling, to Eskel’s chest, that face lit in blue and shadows, staring at him with awe and lust. 

Geralt feels incandescent. He feels like he’s transforming. But in the best way. He clenches and ripples on the huge shaft inside him, before he feels something bulging. Pressing at his rim. He shouts, feet slipping and only Eskel keeps him from slamming down further onto the huge pistil. Eskel slips one hand down to feel what is pressing at Geralt’s entrance, and the way his cock jumps against Geralt’s leaves Geralt whimpering again. “Fuck, wolf, feel that? Looks like we’re going to fill you with seeds. Real ones.”

Geralt can’t help the way he jolts at that. The way his cock jerks and he whines again, wanting to hide his face and how much that idea delights and frightens him. Geralt can’t hide his face, as Eskel moves up to kiss him, hard and deep as the first seed pushes up to the tip, body tingling and hot where he can feel it pushing into him, one, then what has to be a dozen more follow. His cock is dribbling and dripping, each seed making him jerk and jolt, each one easily as big as his own palm, and wider than Eskel’s cock. He swears he can not move, swears he can’t think. 

Eskel thinks for him, petting his belly and sides. “Taking it so good. Feel that, that’s you doing so good for me. Showing me how strong you are. Fuck, look at that. It’s all in you, isn’t it. No more coming from this one.” He is petting him, not touching his hard cock, not easing how he is dripping and whining and so unsteady he might fall as he is guided off that flower. 

He isn’t sure how they manage to stumble together to the next flower. He isn’t entirely aware of what is happening, just Eskel’s hands and the pleased rumble. He’s being guided over this one, and as big as the last one was, this one is even bigger. He whines and wails as his sore hole is pressed to what feels like a fist and a few fingers, back arching and feet pressing to what feels like a huge wine barrel at the base of this one. He can’t take all those seeds. It’s going to be too much. 

“You can, and you will. You will take it, take it for me. You’re my wolf. Strong and such a slut for me.” He is shaking, he can’t, he can’t. Eskel is holding his hips, pressing him down while bending his head and kneeling before him. The feel of that mouth, of that silvered tongue slipping over and along him, has Geralt’s mind exploding in white, cumming so hard he loses track of time or his body. By the time the ringing and echoes of his own wails ceases to deafen him, he is on it. He feels, impossibly full. The seeds this time are bigger. A clenched fist in every way. Each one as it presses to his rim, makes him sweat and whine, jolting and making nonsense noises with his mouth. 

Eskel for his part, stays sucking him, past pain, past overstimulation into cumming again, and again, and again. Time has no meaning anymore. There is only the warm mouth on him and the long torture of that too wide press at his rim. The way it breaks into him each time, pressing and slowly traveling up and up and up. The way that tip- too wide too big, too much- expanding and the seed being pressed to all the other seeds. 

Slowly his feet come from barrel wide and straddling some massive draft horse, to standing- all the seeds that were in the flower now deep inside him. It pulses, heavy, hot inside. He feels like he may pass out, may just not recover. The flower is closing over them and he can’t even panic. 

It just is. He is full of seed and they are going to fail this trial. He sloshes, jolting and moaning, anchored to the base of the now moving flower. Eskel is crawling up him, steadying him. 

Geralt can barely blink, the light through the flower petals burns, it’s too bright. His eyes are watering and all he can care to see is how Eskel looks at him with so much pride. So much awe. That’s all that matters. He can feel Eskel’s hands over his lower belly, rubbing and pressing and it’s so wonderful. It’s so good. He can feel- seeds shifting inside him with every push. 

They are set down, the flower still closed and there are voices. The words don’t seem to penetrate the drugged haze, and when the huge Manticore witcherpulls him off the flower, Geralt can only give a dopey smile. 

The older witchers are gathered around them, a dozen or so, and there is a hard and heavy cock naked and pressing to his mouth. It tastes so good, feels even better on his tongue, the heavy musky flavor is somehow richer for all that the salt is nothing like the sweet nectar. 

There is another cock, the Manticore’s cock proportional to his huge frame, is pressing inside him. His body feels like a ragdoll’s to be thrust between the cock in his mouth and the cock pressing into and over the seeds inside him. It’s as if he is just a toy to be used, he can hear groans and words, curses, but it all is a haze. 

His own hard cock flops and bounces, dripping his own pre in lines that sometimes splat into his belly as he is pounded hard, lifted easily by his hips. Eskel is below him, beside him, face red as he is being spanked hard by Nikkan, whose hard cock is bobbing and pressing against Eskel’s belly where he is being spanked a livid bright red. 

Geralt feels a vague concern, but the cock in his mouth is stealing his air, hands fisting his gooey hair to pull him tight to the hips before him. His nose is being smashed to sweaty skin and he can’t look, can’t remember anything but licking and swallowing and then gasping for breath. The last splatter of cum from the cock in his mouth is intentionally smeared over his eyes, hot and finishing the job of sealing his gaze away.

The moment one cock is gone, another is filling him. Ass and mouth and there are other hands, strong, scarred, some larger than others, each caressing his body. A praise he can understand. Each making sure to press hard enough over the seeds he can feel them grind in and along him inside, can tell this is what he did right. There are dozens of cocks that come in his mouth. There is no care for his breathing, he learns to gasp whenever given half a chance. He becomes just a receptacle for their use. There is no thought beyond pleasing the next cock. No goal beyond clenching for the next cock to thrust into his battered and sore ass, the sloshing of cum and seeds inside making every new cock thrusting into him it's own torture and reward. He is beyond hurt and into some warm achy bubbly soft state, where all he cares about is the next bit of air, and the next pleasurepain too much of pleasing his seniors. He is coated in semen and the gooey nectar, dazed, barely awake from a sated exhaustion, when he slowly becomes aware of the gentle brush of cool water over his body. A wet rag is slowly and carefully thoroughly washing his face, gently working on his gummed and slimed closed eyes.


	2. I don't think that's how Daddy kink works

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here there is angst and bad humiliation and shame. A lot of very confused Geralt blaming himself and twisting himself up inside. And a lot of embarrassment and potential squick as Geralt sees Vesemir as a father, and despite himself, Vesemir sees Geralt as his son. 
> 
> At no point does Vesemir fuck Geralt. But he does stick his hand up his ass. Geralt wishes he would fuck him instead. It’s very deeply mixed up with all sorts of feelings spilling out all over. Please self care accordingly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope Hobbit and Jill both enjoy this!  
> Had a lot of fun writing it, blending a lot of both of the kinks that overlapped.
> 
> One big warning:  
> Geralt cums while Vesemir's hand is up his ass, and there is the live birth of a monster, who very much does NOT want to be born, thank you- that was a comfy good warm place it was in before.

When Geralt finally opens his eyes, he looks up to see Vesemir above him. He can’t help but grin up at the man, proud of what he has done. His legs spread a little wider, wondering if Vesemir is going to be thrusting into him next. He’s sore and it hurts, but he won’t mind being used a little more. 

Vesemir, however, doesn’t look pleased with this. There is that constipated look on his face and Geralt feels uncertain, all at once. Isn’t this good? He did good, right? He’d passed the test? He feels unsure, awkward and his thighs start to close, only to be stopped by Vesemir. Geralt’s confusion must show on his face, because his throat is too ruined and hurts too much to make any words form even if he had the brain power to do so. 

The large hand, gnarled and scarred, cups his cheek and newly cleaned neck. The words this time make sense, penetrate the fog of his mind. “You did nothing wrong, pup. This is what the trial of the Flowers becomes, every time.” He does not sound happy. But that’s so strange. This was so much easier than the Mountains or the Dreams or the Grasses. This was nothing on the whispers of the rare trial of Swords. 

Vessemir keeps gently cleaning Geralt, down his chest and arms, his thighs, calves, feet. Geralt huffs, and he is barely able to croak any sound at all, when he is being lifted in those strong arms and settled onto a clean and dry robe. Vesemir makes another one of those faces then says softly, “I will be getting all those seeds out now.” 

Which Geralt doesn’t quite understand. He’s tired of not understanding. He grumbles and his legs try to close again, but Vesemir’s hands press at his thighs, hold them open despite how he now wants to close them. He can get the seeds out later. The natural way. He doesn’t want Vesemir frowning like that. Is tired of always disappointing the man that is the closest thing he has to a father. He turns his face away as the man above him easily overpowers him to force his thighs back open, wanting to cry suddenly, and unsure why. 

Why is he such a fool. Of course Vesemir doesn’t want to fuck him. He obviously doesn’t feel he did a good enough job to fuck him. Vesemir doesn’t bark or beat or do any of the things the other trainers do. He only frowns at them. On the very worst infractions, he tells them he is disappointed in them. 

Of all the trainers, the one Geralt wants to upset the least, is Vesemir. His frown hurts more than a thousand spankings from Nikkan. Geralt brings his arms up, covering his face and turning away from where he can not escape being a shameful disgrace to Vesemir. This time, the shame brings no lust, the humiliation only burns. His breath hitches, and gentle yet firm fingers poke at his slippery and stretched out rim. 

The squelch of cum as the fingers press into him makes Geralt want to sob. It’s not sexy, knowing that Vesemir is making that disgusted face, is looking down at him, at his thoroughly used body, and finding it lacking. Maybe it was the lack of stamina. Maybe it was his weakness, in not being able to talk, to walk out himself. Maybe it’s that Geralt has to have this done for him. 

He wants to say he can do it himself but when he tries to speak, his voice pops and no sound comes out. He tries to close his legs again, but Vesemir says, tone sharper, “Geralt!” And he goes boneless, he can’t shove the larger man away. He can’t make this stop.

And he wants to. He wants so desperately to make Vesemir leave. He would rather be a gooey mess on the cold stones, to freeze solid, than have that disappointed and upset sound to that voice. Geralt squeezes his arms over his eyes, afraid he is crying, afraid of his face showing how weak he really is. 

Vesemir’s other hand, the one not working a fourth finger into him, moves to give a soothing and comforting rub to his thigh. Like Geralt is some child. Is just some bastion boy scared before his first trial. It’s worse. It’s so much worse, than if he would hit him for being a failure. 

Geralt hates, has always hated, how Vesemir will hold his shoulder after telling him how what he did was foolish or dangerous or wrong. Hates how he will give him a comforting rub as he tells him that he disappointed him but he believes Geralt can do better and be better. 

Geralt curls his arms tighter, covering his entire face from view as he grips his upper arms. He wishes, fiercely, that he wasn’t sloppy and that he couldn’t feel cum smearing over his freshly cleaned thighs, over Vesemir’s arm. He wants to sob as that big hand, that has so often comforted him, slides into him with a sound that turns his stomach. He wants this all to not be real. He wants the man between his thighs to be Eskel. Who would joke or make a lewd comment. 

He wants it to be Nikkan who would say every cruel thought, would spank him for being a weak and disgusting blight on the name of the Wolf School. He wants anything but that gentle touch on his thigh, and the soft, disappointed sounds of Vesemir. “Shh, it’s okay pup, it’s almost over. We’ll have these all out soon.” 

Geralt’s shoulders are hitching. He digs his toes into the bottom of the robe, thighs spread open lewdly as Vesemir roots around inside him, pulling seeds out by cupping over them, one or two or three at a time and dragging them to the rim. The slippery slick slide of them, pushed out next to that hairy wrist, the hand staying inside, is somehow enough to make Geralt hard. 

He doesn’t want that. Doesn’t want to get hard, not when he’s such a failure. And Vesemir, being how he is, doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t do anything, his breath warm where the weeping head bobs and waves merrily up at him, but not once does he shame Geralt or slap it down. Not once does he do anything that Geralt could feel okay with. Something normal. Something to affirm and cement that this is, anything but another in a long line of Geralt being a personal disappointment to the closest thing he will ever have to a father. 

Geralt finally gives into fierce but absolutely silent sobbing at this thought. He doesn’t think there are any tears, but the shame that the action was there, despite the lack of tears or sound, is crushing. His cock doesn’t pay any attention to his mind, hard and stiff as the larger seeds slide out of him one by painful one. He is trembling and he wants it over with. He can’t handle this. 

“Shh, Geralt. It is almost done. I just have to check one more time to make sure I got all the seeds. You can’t have any that took root yet. You haven’t eaten any food to nourish one into doing that.” Geralt startles at this, and his arms move away from his face. He croaks, trying to say he had. He had eaten the axe jerky Eskel had given him. No sound comes out but the disappointment and anger, and, something else that flashes over Vesemir’s face shows he understands that isn’t true. 

Geralt screws his eyes shut and covers his face again as Vesemir’s voice gets as sharp as he has ever heard it. The words hurt so much worse than fists to the sternum would. “You fool. You absolute idiotic fool!” He pauses then says, softer, “Of course you ate something. Thinking yourself just working around a punishment.” He cuts himself off, taking a deep breath but Geralt knows that those words were all for him. He was the fool. He was the one that failed. 

He sobs into his arms, the lack of tears, the lack of way to release the feelings inside burning for all he could taste the tears he wanted to shed clogging his throat. The only positive is how his cock is finally limp. 

But that is not for long. Despite how part of Geralt wants the stones to come alive and eat him whole, Vesemir is working his arm deeper into Geralt. There are fingers prodding from above as that hand inside moves deeper, and something, deep in his belly, wiggles. 

Geralt’s eyes are wide open, and he dare not look. Dare not sit up as there is some cursing. There is more wiggling, caressing like a cock slipping in and out of him, pressing on nerves he never knew. The bulge of forearm and hand inside him, and wiggling long body up his insides, has him hard as a rock. As Vesemir is grunting, panting over his cock as he works his arm in up to near the elbow, Geralt finds to his abject horror that he is cumming hard. It is with shame curling his belly, pulses of it dribbling over his flat stomach as he hides from the shame of it all. Whatever it is, is so long, it is almost like a living rope or a snake inside him. Slippery as an eel, perhaps. He has to hitch his breath a few times as his cock bobs through the spurts of his orgasm, extended as it is by the way his body feels so good for all every part of this also feels alien. 

Vesemir seems to finally get a good grip, and when he begins to pull the wiggly thing out, Geralt swears he can feel it untangling from deeper inside. The feel of it being pulled from his body makes aftershocks zing through him. He finally can’t help but look as Vesemir’s hand finally leaves him, stretching his rim and holding some squirming serpentine creature. It is the same golden green of new buds, streaked with golden goo and dozens of witchers creamy spend, a squiggly long form that tugs this way and that at his rim as if fighting with all it's might against being pulled from him. Between one breath and the next it suddenly has spindly long limbs, like spider legs or new grown twigs, splitting off from the formerly smooth sides to scrabble about, trying to return to the safe warm home it was sprouted within. It is over three feet long, a little wider than two fingers, and the last thing to come out is a great and hideous maw. It gives a low screech and from farther in the west dungeon there is a rattling rumble in answer. The very stones shudder, and Geralt’s eyes are huge as they stare at the beast that is trying so desperately to escape and push back into him. 

Vesemir, for his part, curses loudly. “FUCK! We don’t have a godsdamned choice.” He grabs the wiggly maw and shifts his grip on the other end of the long creature, it must be a baby Leshen, cursing more under his breath as he leaves the room at a dead run. 

Geralt, for his part, wants to just curl up and get this failed trial over with. Instead of being lectured or beaten by some other trainer, naught a moment later, there is Eskel pushing further open the door Vesemir had left ajar in his haste. Eskel is red faced still, with thighs splotchy bruised and an ass that looks mottled with soot it is so abused. Hands shaky but ready to help, to gather Geralt and between them limp away from the west dungeons. Away from the flurry of activity behind them, away from their failures. 

Geralt doesn’t ask about the intense attention Nikkan had obviously paid Eskel, and Eskel doesn’t ask about whatever had happened to him. They both go to their room, cleaning the cum and spend from each other, barely able to move without wincing. But it’s okay. It’s them. Geralt hisses at the rough red of Eskel’s rim, where it looks savaged by whatever was done to him. But he just kisses the spot above it, gently wiping him clean.

Eskel does nearly the same. The sun is fully set and they have not bothered with a candle, when they finally curl up together under the blankets. Their hands trace each other’s sides and whatever the trial of the Flowers was meant to teach has been lost, amongst their many failures of today. 

They are never called to task for those failures, however they both hold them close to their chest. They ride out on the path the next year, having been given books on how to mate with different monsters. How to judge when mating a monster is the better solution than killing them. Which monsters are fatal to mate with, are dangerous and how. 

The Ancient Leshen, ones old enough to be sexually mature, are very rare. Most live near hot springs, like the one at Kaer Morhen. And when their flowers bloom, they are pacified, are drawn out of their insatiable need to breed each summer, for a full 30 years if they can successfully sprout a seedling in a willing host. 

Geralt ruined the trial of the Flowers being held at Kaer Morhen for the next few decades to come, with his failure. He kept his head down and desperately tried not to show his shame at that. But when the new Leshen of the valley, only a little taller than a man, came to the edge of the road where Geralt was resting his horse, a few years after the trial? Well. Geralt couldn’t bring himself to feel that shame anymore. 

The goat skull was a bit too small, but a deer or horse skull would be far too large. The green of the Leshen was not quite the deep green of others he had seen in passing- yet not the seedling gold of when it first came out of him. 

But Geralt could only quirk a small smile, watching the best of his many mistakes drag towards him a dead young wyvern behind it like a gift being offered up by a loyal hound, before fading back into the forest that was obviously now it's territory. 

Just because it wasn’t how it was meant to go, maybe it didn’t mean it was a failure. He also wasn’t about to admit to Eskel exactly how he got the fresh Wyvern spleen for him. He just set about harvesting the valuable parts, disposing of the rest near the trolls for them to eat, before setting back on the road home. 

He took a deep breath, and wondered if there would be a chance to participate in the trial of Flowers when the Ancient Leshen under Kaer Morhen was once more in bloom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make the author THRIVE. 
> 
> Please, if you enjoyed any parts of this, tell me about them? Any comment, no matter how small, is adored.

**Author's Note:**

> AN: Paraceratherium is the closest to the skull that the ancient Leshen has. A truly massive one, a nod to how ancient this Leshen is, here for its own entertainment as much as anything.


End file.
